Even canines know things that have slipped from memory
like a straight razor across skin. Consider your
hometown. All flop-eared and flea-chewed, a dog will plod through fog,
removing that grey veil in steps before the nose perks, twitches,
smells a familiar, finds its dampened dream-house,
ducks under a redwood doorway, turns around
once
twice
thrice
and eases its bones down to a pillowed earth. Meanwhile
its fog-bound master roams, searching for an ideal
as elusive as dew drops while man's behest friend
lies right where birth found him, close-eyed and feeling
he would and will gladly die there.
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